


In Careless Verity

by dearxalchemist



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 1920s Based, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Historical, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Love Letters, Mutual Pining, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff, Slight altering of historical events, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 12:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6803059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smoke lingers between her and her Uncle, who is less than impressed with her constant complaints. He is all she has left in the world and he’s practically selling her out of his life. The estate and its earnings will never touch her hands until she is tied to another, and her Uncle Rudi has made that decision for her already. He’s marrying her off to a supposed wealthy man. A man with business in his background and experience with an estate that almost mirrors Gaby’s own.  Uncle Rudi promises that it will be a smart business match. That she doesn’t have to love him. Marriage isn’t about love, he promises her that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a prompt submitted to Imagine Gallya, "Imagine Illya and Gaby in an arranged marriage" and this sort of took on a life of its own. I have taken elements from several period drama's and sort of rolled them into this AU, along with fancy clothes and general mannerisms.

The cigarette in her fingers is shaking. It doesn’t matter how many deep breaths she sucks in, her nerves refuse to calm down. She can feel her insides churning, threatening sharp pains of anxiety, washing over her features. She manages to keep a calm face, lips turning down ever so slightly at the thought of being property. Despite her arguments of a new revolution, her world is not quite ready for that kind of advancement. Her destiny has been decided for her. She is to meet her soon-to-be husband in a matter of minutes. Lifting the small cancer stick to her lips, Gaby takes a long pull and holds it in until her lungs burn. The smoke slowly crawls from her lips before she manages to exhale, clouding the air in front of her with a soft haze. Her eyes burn but she refuses to let herself get emotional before meeting the man she’s supposed to spend the rest of her youth with. 

“This is unfair,” Gaby’s voice is razor sharp as she finishes off the last drag and then stamps out the cigarette in the glass tray in front of her. Smoke lingers between her and her Uncle, who is less than impressed with her constant complaints. He is all she has left in the world and he’s practically selling her out of his life. Her parents were taken away by the war, along with the rest of their fortune. A little of it is to be Gaby’s but only until she is married. The estate and its earnings will never touch her hands until she is tied to another, and her Uncle Rudi has made that decision for her already. He’s marrying her off to a supposed wealthy man. A man with business in his background and experience with an estate that almost mirrors Gaby’s own. Uncle Rudi promises that it will be a smart business match. That she doesn’t have to love him. Marriage isn’t about love, he promises her that. All the ballets and theatre works she’s seen are lies. Love is a business arrangement, he assures her of this as he starts his next drink. Expensive amber liquid swirls around in his crystal glass, keeping her attention rather than his words. It doesn’t matter how many times he repeats himself, Gaby doesn’t want this. 

This may make her spoiled and rebellious, but she wants her own decisions. She wants to be her own woman. Her Uncle carries on, over and over with his speech of how it’s an honor to have such high standards for a bloodline. All his words do nothing but build the fire in her belly. She could careless of good breeding. Gaby is two seconds away from ordering a drink to calm herself from lighting another cigarette when the butler makes the announcement. Their guests have arrived and it’s customary to meet them standing. Gaby glances at her Uncle with one last silent plea but he ignores her all together, emptying his glass quickly and standing to button his suit coat. Gaby rises and smooths her hands over her dress to push away the wrinkles before following a few steps behind her Uncle to the main entrance. The house is expensive, filled with the latest technology that German engineering has to offer, including a radio that catches more than just the usual four channels. If Gaby turns it on at the right time, she can catch the soft sounds of blues played from a pirated station. Of course now is not the time for music as the main cherry doors open up, spilling sun across the plush carpets and temporarily blinding the small woman before swinging shut.

She expected more than just one man. 

Blinking a few times, she allowed her eyes to readjust to the light as the world around her came into focus once again. There stood a single man in her house and he stood very tall. So tall she worried for a moment she would have to invest in taller heels just to be able to get a better look at him with his perfectly combed hair and crisp suit. It didn’t matter how much of a handsome face he had, she wasn’t going to go easy into the marriage. She would fight until the very end of the aisle, she would scream until the priest made her say the damning words, “I do.”

“Thank you for having me this evening.” His accent is heavy, bleeding his words together and Gaby cuts her sharp gaze to her Uncle. He is marrying her off to a Russian man. Her blood boils and she can feel her cheeks heating up. All her Uncle’s speeches of good breeding are spun lies if he is really marrying her off to the man before her. Gaby doesn’t even move when he extends his hand out to her Uncle. 

Uncle Rudi steps forward and clasps the man’s hands like they are old friends. Her Uncle is practically beaming as he shakes his hand and turns towards Gaby with a sweeping gesture, “Illya Kuryakin, this is her. This is my Gabriella.” 

Gaby hooks her chin upwards, as if judging him like one would a piece of meat at the market. Her Uncle narrows his gaze to her for just a moment and Gaby decides not to push her luck. Instead of saying what she wants, she steps forward and holds her hand out, wanting him to shake it. Only he doesn’t shake it. He does the gentlemanly action of taking her fingers and pulling them up to his lips. He lets his lips skim over the backs of her knuckles before pressing a soft kiss to the back of her hand. The moment he touches her there’s a rush of warmth to her neck and cheeks and Gaby wonders vaguely if this is more anger at his actions or something much more. He is handsome and very polite but the night is young and he still has to survive dinner.

“Forgive me,” Illya nods his head slowly as he carefully releases her hand in a slow manner, almost like he doesn’t want to let her go just yet. “Your Uncle has told me so much about you, but now about how beautiful you are.” 

Gaby almost scoffs at his words. She is too short and plank like to be consider beautiful. She is scrawny in areas where most women are blessed with curves. However she manages not to show any of her anger, swallowing it down long enough to make a quick quip in his direction, twisting her lips up into a malicious smirk, “And you are very tall.” 

Instead of taking it as anything less than a statement, Illya laughs. It is soft and breathy and Gaby can see the tension slowly leaving his muscles. She wonders vaguely if he was nervous in coming to meet her or if this is just some sort of business transaction. He nods his head slowly and shrugs his shoulders in a careful gesture to show her he is unharmed by her sharp smile.

“That I am.” 

“And you are Russian.” Gaby throws it at him as her Uncle begins to step away. She watches him freeze though and turn to look at her. Uncle Rudi is almost glaring at her, silently commanding her to stop being stubborn. 

“I am that as well.” Illya does not look ashamed one bit. In fact he looks proud at her words, “I was born in Moscow and I will tell you more over dinner. Shall we?” He bends his arm for her to take his elbow. Gaby’s anger flares and decides silently to herself that she will rattle his nerves before dessert. She keeps her manners though and when he offers up his arm, she takes it. Her hand fits surprisingly well in the bend of his elbow but she ignores this fact as they pass through the sitting room and into the elegant dining room her mother designed when she was younger. It is a soft yellow with blue flowers climbing the walls and thick plush carpet not to mention expensive wood furniture and real silver accents across the table. 

Her Uncle makes an excuse halfway through dinner to make a business deal. He excuses himself from the table, letting the staff take away his plate of baked hen and roasted vegetables, leaving just Gaby and Illya to sit in an uncomfortable silence. Her Uncle had done all the talking over dinner. Gaby had yet to say a word. 

She stabs at her roasted potato and tears off a small piece. Her stomach is sour and she doesn’t want to eat, but she rather play with her food than deal with her potential future husband. Illya however, refuses to let the silence settle. Something about him is splitting her nerves. It’s almost as if he wants them to be married. As if he doesn’t mind marrying a complete stranger. Like this is just another business deal in his life, Gaby is just one more conquest. 

“Your Uncle tells me you were in the school for Ballet, yes?” He asks over the edge of his wine glass. The chef had done an excellent job on the food, pairing it with a bottle of red from the cellar, Gaby wonders if Illya will fire any of the staff when they are married.

She shakes her head, if they are married. She refuses to stop fighting. After a moment or two of silence, she gives into his question, “I did. I left ballet after my parents died in the war.” She doesn’t elaborate, instead focusing on bland facts, “I do not dance much anymore.” 

“That is a shame, Gabriella. I do love to dance.” Illya sounds a bit disappointed at her words, but he carries on. Their conversation is strained. She has yet to find anything that makes him laugh again. Not to mention nothing seems to rattle his nerves. 

“Gaby.” She corrects him with a sharp click of her tongue in a very un-lady-like way. “Please, my name is Gaby not Gabriella.” 

He nods and they carry on. 

She learns little bits and pieces of him. How his parents own several pieces of land in Russia, how his father is a wealthy businessman, but how he wanted to leave to travel. Gaby learns he enjoys photography. How anyone can enjoy pointing a camera places, she’ll never know but she nods regardless. He tells her small things, revealing so much and yet nothing at all. She can’t quite figure out the man across from her yet. Their plates are cleared away and dessert is set down but, Gaby can’t seem to eat. Illya barely touches the food as well. Instead of eating he folds his napkin and holds his hand out to her across the table.

“How about you give me a tour of your grounds. We could use the fresh air,” He gives her what she thinks is a reassuring smile, but Gaby doesn’t return it yet. She doesn’t even take his hand. Instead she pushes her own chair back and stands. It is a good idea to clear the room. She would love to stroll alone, but it’s obvious that Illya will not be shaken so easily. 

“Yes, I’ll show you my grounds.” She emphasizes on the possessive tone of her grounds. Illya lets her lead him out of the dining room, through several of the winding halls until they’re back to the front of the sprawling house. A staff member opens the front door for her and the two of them step out. Illya moves to offer his arm for her once again, but Gaby ignores it once again. Instead she picks up the edges of her white dress and steps down out of the house. Her shoes touch down on smooth steps until she’s on soft pebbles that line the walk of the estate. 

Illya towers above her but keeps his pace slow so as to keep himself next to her. The silence stretches between them, and Gaby know’s he’s looking at her and not actually ahead to where they’re walking. After another moment or two, he speaks again, “I did not want this.” 

Gaby stops in her tracks, tempted to reach for her cigarettes for a social crutch but she resists the urge. Instead she turns her dark head up to his. The sun is dipping dangerously low in the sky, streaks of dark blue are starting to make their appearance, marking the end of their night soon. Gaby waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t seem to have any more words, “You did not want this? Then why are you here?” 

The Russian man exhales slowly and reaches up, rubbing at his face as if he can scrub the tension away, “My parents. Both of them were arranged to be married. They insist they are very happy still. It was brought to my attention that I should follow in their footsteps. Arrangements were made. Your Uncle actually approached them.” 

Gaby’s rage towards her Uncle only skyrockets at the words leaving Illya’s lips.

“I thought it was silly, but then I come here and meet this German ballerina and she is very beautiful.” Illya’s voice has lowered substantially. Gaby almost has to lean forward to catch his words, “On paper we would be very good together. I could be a good partner for you. Make all the right investments. Russian way is always best.” 

She closes her eyes and wants to scream. “I am my own woman! I am not to be sold to any man for my inheritance.” She manages to keep her voice low but the anger is there. She clenches her small hands into fists, like she could fight him if she wanted to. Of course there is a big chance her little fists would be nothing but small hits against his expensive suit. Instead of letting her carry on, he grabs her small clenched hands. His thumbs smooth over the backs of her knuckles in a slow soothing manner. 

“You would not be my property,” Illya assures her. “My parents want this, but I think with most certainty, we could be partners. Your money would be your own, your property your own. Please consider my offer.” 

He squeezes her small fists for a moment and Gaby is at a loss for words. She wants to go on and on about being a free woman, but he’s right. If she rejects this arrangement, her Uncle will just force another and another until she is being urged by the estate to take a husband. “I don’t want this. Not yet,” Gaby finally speaks up, voice soft and whisper-like against his own.

She hates to admit, but Illya is very handsome in the beginning states of starlight. 

“Nyet, not yet.” He assures her and his fingers slip away from her fists, uncurling her own digits for a moment before he lets go of her all together, “Long engagement better. I will write you, every week until you agree to dance with me.” His small smile is back as they circle the rest of the estate property. The tension across her shoulders eases and Gaby falls into a slow pace with him. It is easier to be around the man who is doomed to be her husband. The arrangement is still a bother in the back of her mind, but her thoughts are clouded with Illya. He is surprisingly much better than the nightmares she conjured up in her free time. 

He walks her to the door and leaves her inside the front foyer. He keeps his manners, saying goodbye to her Uncle Rudi first, demanding they meet again for drinks and future plans for the estate. Her Uncle is practically smitten with the Russian man and Gaby watches until he turns towards her. 

“Thank you, Gaby for the evening. It has been most enlightening.” Illya steps in close and yet far enough to be polite, bending at the waist to her level. He kisses her cheek softly and Gaby can still feel his lips there long after he leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

“Gabriella, do not sulk.” 

Uncle Rudi’s voice snaps across her ears and the small woman instantly sits up. Her slumping shoulders quickly moving up into attention. Gaby’s brown eyes flicking up to her Uncle who enters the room with a black briefcase tucked under his arm. His tweed suit makes his skin look almost sallow and she wonders if he’s feeling ill. There’s a fine layer of perspiration along the edge of his thinning hair and she twists her lips, reaching for a cigarette. 

“I am not sulking,” Gaby practically scoffs out the words as her fingers close over the unfiltered tip of a cigarette and her Uncle pins her with a short look, making her drop the cancer stick all together. Gaby settles for dropping her hands into her lap, tightening her fingers around the book against her knees. The book is borrowed from her Uncle’s extensive library, bound in red leather and full of gruesome tales of bodies found across Europe. It reads almost like a diary, but she knows her Uncle would greatly disapprove of reading such things, so she tucks the book behind her in the chair and sits up a little bit straighter with both brows moving up her forehead as her Uncle thumbs through the mail.

His fingers pause on a yellowing piece of parchment and he pulls it up, looking at the seal up in the daylight streaming through the thin windows of the study. His lips purse for a moment as he turns the letter over in his hand looking at the thick black scribble across the front of it and then the postage. 

“My dear Gabriella,” Uncle Rudi breathes out the words like he’s found something miraculous. He turns the letter over again, looking at the red and gold seal that is keeping the envelope intact. Gaby tilts her dark head over, idling playing with the edge of her lacy skirts, picking at her fingernails lightly as she watches her Uncle cross the room. He takes big strides across the plush carpet and drops the letter right in front of her face, “We are saved. It seems your dinner with Mr. Kuryakin was a success. At this rate can I hope for a Spring wedding?” 

Gaby’s face flushes a deep red and she isn’t sure if it’s from embarrassment or anger at her Uncle’s words. Her dinner with the Russian man was more of an ambush set by him. He was trying to marry her off to the wealthiest man he could find all for what? To keep the estate? She was unsure entirely of what her Uncle’s motives were but, she would continue to fight them until the Priest took her hand and asked her the damning words. She hadn’t thought of the Russian man in nearly three weeks time. Even if she could still feel his lips on her cheek after their dinner together, she hadn’t thought of him because he hadn’t thought of her. There had been no letter after the dinner. No thank you card slipped into the mail slot, not even a phone call on that new telephone contraption her Uncle had insisted the estate put in. Yes, she hadn’t thought of Illya Kuryakin since his departure from her parlor with that sweeping low bow of his. 

Now though her Uncle dangled the letter in front of her before putting it in her hands. Her fingers smoothed over the sharp edges of the envelope as she cut her eyes up to her Uncle. He watched her through his thick glasses, dark eyes assessing her before she looked away and let her thumb hook under the seal. The letter was addressed to her with thick curling letters. It was addressed to ‘Lady Gaby Teller’ not her full name, just as she told him to call her. His lettering was beautiful, absurdly more beautiful than her own penmanship. Her thumb pulled up on the red and gold seal of his family and she broke it. A small piece of parchment tore off from her attention but she carried on, unfolding the thick paper to reveal three pages of more elegant handwriting, all of it addressed to her. 

Her heart skipped a beat and her throat felt small as she swallowed hard -- tongue feeling heavy and thick. She glanced up from the letter to her Uncle but he was gone, his briefcase left on the desk across the study. The plush carpet had bright stripes of sunlight slashing across it, illuminating the room with a bright white light that accented all the gold her Uncle had invested in, decorating the estate in a rich taste. Gaby shifted in the chair, pushing the book further into her spine as she glanced down at the letter in her hands. She held onto it with two hands, afraid to drop it from her shaking nerves. Her eyes skimmed over the first few lines. It was very cordial, all full of that gentleman-like manner he had possessed while attending dinner. The more she stared at his words the more she could hear his voice, that thick accent washing over his dialogue. 

‘ _Dearest Gaby_ ,’ He had started the letter with looping letters, making her heart stutter around in her ribcage. Her eyes skimmed along the page, thanking her for the company at dinner. He expressed a fondness for writing, thankful to do it again, thankful to write to her. There was nothing apologizing for his time away, nothing apologizing for not speaking to her sooner. His letter went on about returning to Moscow, of his train ride there. He spoke of the beautiful countryside and in one line made her blood boil, ‘ _I can not wait to move you here_.’

“What!” Gaby shouted to the empty library. She stood up so fast that a curl escaped her pinned updo. The lock of hair brushed her reddened cheek as she clenched her fingers around the letter, crinkling the rich paper with shaking hands. Anger bubbled up under her skin causing her jaw to clench up. Her teeth clanked together and she slammed the letter down on the expensive cherry table. Her outburst had not gone unnoticed, with her eyes trained down on the dark words, the library door swung open quietly and her handmaid poked her head in. 

“Excuse me Miss, everything alright?” The voice was sweet and meek, very low and attached to a petite red-headed woman with more freckles than anyone Gaby had ever seen in her entire life. Breaking her attention away from the letter she forced herself to give the woman a small polite smile.

“Yes, yes Rose, everything is perfectly well.” She lied and the other woman watched her for a moment, pursing her lips before Gaby exhaled and motioned for the woman to come into the library. Rose did so, closing the heavy door behind her and pressing her back into it before Gaby motioned to the letter in her hand, “This man. This man they all expect me to stop and marry wants to move me. Can you believe the audacity? He wants to move me to Russia.” 

Gaby rolls her eyes at the idea of anyone moving her. Forcing her to leave her wealthy estate to travel somewhere possibly dark and cold. Wasn’t that what the newspapers had always reported of Russia? An endless winter? She felt her stomach cinch up at the idea of being stuck in an endless white winter with a man she hardly knew. 

“With all due respect my Lady,” Rose started softly with her hands folded in front of her black and white uniform, “Must you marry the man?

Gaby frowned and looked down at the letter. Part of her was unsure of how she felt about the blonde headed man who had spent an entire evening with her, even attempting to convince her that marrying him would be a partnership, not a marriage. She settled for shrugging her shoulders, “If not him then Uncle Rudi won’t stop. He will keep trying to marry me off until he succeeds. We both know the law, the estate won’t be left to me. I have to have a husband thanks to my Uncle’s lawyers. The Estate will leave me penniless and worse of all, homeless. I will be one of those woman you hear about in the London streets.” 

She held back a shiver and Rose grimaced at her before giving her a sympathetic look, one that Gaby hated. The handmaiden smoothed away invisible wrinkles on her dark dress and gave a soft sigh, “Well My Lady, I suggest you write that gentleman in return, require him to move here? Is that too bold? I am sorry my Lady.” Rose kept her voice low, not wanting to anger any of her superiors, but she could never truly anger Gaby.

Gaby had taken on Rose as a handmaiden since her Mother passed away and would have no other servants in the house take care of her dressing and hair other than Rose. She had made sure her Uncle had compensated the woman well and even took to giving her gifts when she could. Overall Gaby rarely called upon the other woman for chores, more or less she liked the company she got from the handmaiden. Rose never asked her to act properly or stop sulking, instead she lended an ear when possible and advice but that was a rarity. At her words though, Gaby grinned.

“I should,” Gaby almost laughed in an un-lady-like sort of way, head tilted back as the hysterical sound left her lips. “I should tell the Russian brute to move here. If the man wants to marry me, then I will do so on my own terms. If he wants my estate, then he will have to work for it. Now, Rose, get me a cup of tea place? And some fresh ink is needed as well. I want to start this return letter as soon as possible.” 

Rose’s lips twisted into a bright smile and the red-headed woman nodded before leaving the library in a flash of black and Gaby turned her attention back to the parchment on the table under her hands. If she didn’t marry this man, there would be more. There would be more arrangements made, her Uncle wouldn’t stop until she was married off and Gaby couldn’t handle the circus that would follow such a motion. Illya Kuryakin had felt like a possible partnership, that is before his letter had come and before he had stated his desire to displace her.

\--------------- 

“Oh my,” Napoleon Solo’s American accent rang out clear across the pale ivory room, causing his best friend’s eyes to glance up, brows knitting together in curiosity as he watched him. Illya stretched his long legs out in his pale chair, thick coat pulled up around his neck, keeping out the cool Russian winter that was settling around his own estate. He sat up a bit more in the chair, tilting his blonde head over and stretching out his hand, uncurling his fingers with his palm facing the ceiling.

“Bring it here Cowboy,” Illya’s affectionate nickname rolling off of his lips as he watched his best friend. The unlikely friends had become incredibly close over the last few years when Napoleon’s art had ended up in the Russian market and Illya had bought it all up, decorating his estate in the fine art. He had bought so much of it, that Napoleon himself had written him and the two became fast friends, even trading business secrets and forging an almost unheard of friendship. Americans were brash and flashy, Solo was both of those things but he was a breath of fresh air for Illya who had spent most of his life around the upper class of Russian socialites. 

“I don’t think so my Russian friend,” The American smirked as he turned the letter over in his hand, “If I hand this letter over, who knows what may happen. I could lose you forever to a beautiful woman.” 

Illya scoffed, “I have not lost you yet to all of those companions of yours.” 

“Yes, but none of mine write back on such nice paper and with a great smell,” Napoleon pulled the letter up under his nose for a moment, sniffing. “She even smells worth this arrangement. Are you sure she’s beautiful Peril? I wasn’t aware any woman worth her weight would be willing to do such an arrangement.” Napoleon’s blue gaze shifted over to Illya’s and he watched him stiffen in the ivory colored chair.

“Yes,” Illya murmured the word carefully, a faint flush touching his pale cheeks making him look like a young boy. Illya stood then, stretching out his long legs and crossed the room, his hand still outstretched for the closed letter. Gabriella Teller had written him back and Napoleon had snatched the letter up before he had a chance to grab it first. He snatched the letter back from Napoleon’s grip and turned his head over a bit, “Yes, I am certain she is beautiful.”

“When does this arrangement go through?” Solo asked with genuine curiosity lacing his voice. Napoleon Solo came from money, his art only fueled him on, giving him plenty of extra to travel on and live expensively. He dressed in the sharpest of suits and ate even more expensive food. He would make a great catch to any woman looking for good fortune, only if he ever settled. Illya was certain that Napoleon would never settle, only living for himself and not for others.

“I must convince her first.” Illya stated knowingly as his finger slid under the dark green seal of her family, breaking open the parchment. Napoleon’s eyes sparkled with even more curiosity and his lips curved up like a cat as his dark brows rose.

“Oh really? Never heard of convincing a woman when the whole wedding was arranged.” He almost sounded amused at the statement and Illya scoffed, ignoring his best friend as he turned his back to him, holding the letter close to read, just high enough that Solo couldn’t make out the thin cursive lettering. Gaby’s letters were a bit shaky, her penmanship needed work, but it was almost endearing. He could smell the faint trace of her perfume on the paper, his eyes slid further down the letter, eyeing a spot where she had smudged the ink. The small ink blot almost formed a small heart against her letters as she spelled out the terms of this arrangement -- requesting he come to her. 

“What!” Illya’s outburst had Napoleon taking a quick step back from his best friend. Napoleon took a few more steps away, spinning slightly on his heel as he took in the extensive study that his friend spent most of his time in. The room was ivory toned with silver and gold plated against the moldings, with books lining the walls and a very large ivory couch that was used for reading and guests and an overstuffed ivory chair that was well loved by Illya. He was almost always in this room, with some of Napoleon’s art hanging on the wall above the large marble fireplace with the blaze burning high. The temperature in the room rose with Illya’s outburst and Napoleon could hardly contain his grin. 

The American sniffed for a moment and then sank down into Illya’s now unoccupied chair, “Trouble in those terms of service?” 

“Pack your bags. We’re going to Germany.”


	3. Chapter 3

Napoleon detested trains. They rumbled and vibrated with every mile into the dense countryside, making his back ache and his legs feel cramped. He was more accustomed to flying, but his friend preferred trains. They rode together in a private car with plush seats and a small table at the end by the window. Illya slumped into the corner, his forehead dangerously close to touching the glass of the window as he leaned over the table, scribbling across a thick piece of parchment to drop off at the next station. It had been two weeks since he received the letter from the Teller woman and he hadn’t stopped writing her since. 

“What are you writing the poor woman now?” Solo drawled out his words carefully as he pulled his complimentary drink close to his lips, taking a sip of the amber liquid and sighing tastefully as it burned along the back of his throat. He twisted the small napkin on the table and reached for his own fountain pen, scratching a small design on the paper napkin. He glanced across the car to Illya who was still writing with perfect looping letters and an unbreakable focus. Solo shifted back into his seat, drawing another line across the napkin, forming a small arrow, “If I didn’t know better Peril, I would say you’re rather fond of her but only in writing.” 

“Nyet.” Illya finally spoke up. He was clipped with his tone, not quite looking at his friend as he signed his name across the bottom of the letter with a sharp certainty to his name. It was like drawing a weapon, aiming, and firing away and landing the perfect hit as the last drop of ink dried. He cut his gaze up to the American and raised his eyebrows, “It is very good business for the both of us. She however, is stubborn.” 

“Stubborn women are a lot of trouble.” Solo sighed but his tone was almost fond, as if chasing a woman was better than her falling into his arms. Illya didn’t see it this way, because he shook his head and pointed a calloused finger at Napoleon nodding his head.

“No trouble,” He spoke knowingly as images of Gaby standing in her Uncle’s parlor still haunted him. She was such a small thing in lace, with long legs and a sharp mouth. She came from money and yet, her Uncle was so eager to marry her off to someone wealthy. The idea of bankruptcy had entered Illya’s head but he had pushed all that aside the moment he had met Gaby Teller. She had the faint scent of perfume and sweet tobacco, the faint trace of cloves always bringing him back. He couldn’t quite put his finger on her, but they would be a smart match. The only better match would be if she were Russian. He could teach her the language though, he could bring her away from the German landscape and show her his motherland. Napoleon cleared his throat, brushing away all those images of bringing Gaby to his own home, of lettering her leave her touch there in that estate. 

His estate hadn’t housed a woman since his mother left before the war. His father had gone away with her, leaving most of the fortune to Illya. Higher socialites had called their leaving ‘suspicious’ right before the war had started. A few Government men had showed up, asking Illya of their whereabouts but all he could give them were addresses to other properties owned by his family. People whispered about his family, casting shadows of shame, leaving just before the war to avoid paying for it. 

His parents marriage had been arranged, they had lived very happily. He was sure they had, from what little memories of them he had, they had been happy. They had love, the real sort of love that only scholars had dreamed up with their little books. Of course now he was certain they had dirty money in their hands, but he pretended to not notice, only hoping for their eventual return instead of the letters they sent. His parents had given him the name of the Teller family in their last letter nearly a month before. Rudi was to arrange the marriage of his favorite niece and Illya had struck up the plot, his parents would return for his wedding day. They would have to. 

Napoleon cleared his throat once more, downing the rest of his drink and setting the glass down before lifting the napkin up, showing a small little cartoon-like doodle. It was a heart with an arrow splitting through it, “You were saying Peril?”

“The lady is no trouble,” He sighed heavily unsure of the words himself. Gaby’s letter to him had been confident and crude, much like her attitude towards him the first time he had met her. She hadn’t liked him for his Russian ways and now it seemed she wouldn’t even consider moving there. He wouldn’t allow her to make that ruling just yet. Determined to make the right choice, he had packed himself and Solo up, finishing off a few deals before boarding the train from Moscow to Berlin. It would take three days time and he was prepared to stay as long as it took to convince the small German woman of his smart arrangement. 

Together they could be a smart business plan. She came from wealth, he came from wealth, and together he could invest their fortune into something bigger than the both of them. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked at Napoleon’s little napkin and shrugged his shoulders, “As I said, the Lady is no problem. She just need good business skills. I teach her.” 

He nodded and Solo looked ready to laugh off his words, instead the American nodded at him as if saluting his ideas of traveling this far all for an arrangement of marriage. Napoleon reached up and ran a hand along his perfectly combed hair, his pale fingers smoothing the dark locks aside as he looked at Illya, “Just be smooth about this okay? Where I come from, the only arranged marriages are after the petticoats are lifted. If you catch my drift.” He dropped his hand from his hair and dug inside of his suit jacket for a moment, pulling out an expensive cigarette case and opening it. 

“This is not America,” Illya reminded him, and oh did he love to remind Solo constantly that Russia was not America, that nowhere here were his Western ways accepted. He watched his best friend light the end of his cigarette before blowing out a smooth stream of smoke, reminding Illya all over again of the small dancer outside under the dusk light when they had taken a tour of the grounds. He could still feel her heated cheek under his lips and he could still see her confused look when he promised her they would be partners. He stretched his legs out in the train car, wondering idly if she had thought him to be some sort of monster, “I promised long engagement.” 

“Oh?” Napoleon looked over at him, cigarette dangling from his pink lips. The man in the blue suit shifted in his seat, pulling the cancer stick away and snuffing it out in the small glass ashtray on the table. He folded his arms onto the table, leaning over it a bit as he watched Illya, “Long engagement so you can decide if you want to marry her? Or so she can decide when you have your first…” Napoleon trailed off and Illya’s cheeks flushed red, “Episode.” 

“That will not happen.” Illya grounds out the words with a feverish tone, his cheeks are red and his brows are knitting together. He’s already angry and Solo knows if he pushes more, then Illya’s well control will easily snap like a piano wire hit at exactly the right time. He wants to pluck the string in front of this Teller woman of his. He wants to see if she can handle the temperament that comes with his best friend.   
“And how long do you think you can keep that a secret? Your parents? Eventually she’s going to want to meet them. Are you going to tell her they left to avoid the war? That they didn’t want to give up the money?” Solo means well but Illya’s well tuned control snaps and he shoves the table hard, the connecting piece splinters off and he stands quickly, knocking Solo’s little whiskey glass into the wall. It shatters, raining glass onto the compartment floor. His knuckles are bloodless as he squeezes his hands into well uniformed fists, shaking heavily and Napoleon knows he’s struck all the right nerves, “This is what I was talking about.” 

Illya breathes deep through his nose and doesn’t say anything more. He pulls his coat tightly around his body and leaves the compartment, slamming the door behind him and disappearing into the train.

\-------

Another body is on the front page of the newspaper in her Uncle’s hands. It’s another scandalous article, someone is butchering people from one end of Europe to another, this body is older though, found near Italy off of some shipping company’s property. Gaby can barely make out any of the article as she squints across the breakfast table, her eyes over her orange juice, trying to read the tiny type before her Uncle closes the paper and sets it aside. Gaby straightens almost instantly so he can not comment on her bad posture as she stabs at a piece of wurst. She quickly pops it into her mouth and chews slowly as Uncle Rudi eyes her carefully through his thick glasses and then reaches for his coffee, bored with her already.

Gaby swallows carefully, “Uncle,” She says softly picking up her orange juice once more and swirling the liquid around the glass, not quite taking a drink of it yet. “What’s the name of that shipping company you work for again?” 

“Now, Gaby, that is none of your concern. Young Lady’s should not fret themselves with the gruesome news.  
He is very good at avoiding her questions, reminding her constantly that she is a lady of good breed and fortune, that she shouldn’t slump or chew with her mouth open, but all Gaby wants to do is question him about the news, tinker around in his garage with all that strange equipment of his. Uncle Rudi takes another sip of coffee and settles back into his chair. The morning sun is already filtering across their lavish dining table, illuminating the room with a warm glow that matches the beautiful decor, “Now my dear, have you received any more letters from that Mr. Kuryakin gentleman?” 

Gaby’s stomach instantly plummets and she vaguely wishes she hadn’t had the bite of wurst. Her stomach feels slightly sour and her nerves prickle at the thought of the several letters she had received since she had last written him, telling him he ought to come to Germany if he wished to make good on the arrangement. She had been testing him and so far, he hadn’t come. He made no mention of ever coming back to see her. He had only written her more of Russia. Of the sights to see and the sounds to hear. He promised her art, some of the finest anyone had ever seen but Gaby had no use for art. She had no use for anything that would take her beyond Russian borders. Twisting in her seat, she faced her uncle with a pout twisting over her lips, “Nothing more than the usual. He is rather boring Uncle, do you think you could forget this arrangement? It seems silly that in this day and age, I should have an arranged marriage. I mean honestly --” 

She doesn’t get to finish that statement because her Uncle Rudi’s fist slams onto the table. He is uncharacteristically red around the round tops of his cheeks and he looks agitated with her, “Gabriella, I will not be around forever. The estate deems you must be married and this is the best way for you. Do you think some German prince will come sweep you off your feet? This is a business arrangement my dear. This is for your future, for our future.” 

He talks like her marriage is nothing more than a business deal set to make him and the estate money. He talks just like he did when she was younger, like all business proceedings are above her pretty little head and if she’s a good girl, he will buy her new dresses. Only Gaby is a young woman now and frilly little dresses will not win this argument. She does not want to be married to some man she hardly knows. This arrangement is unfair and she has every intention of kicking and screaming her way out of it. Her own hands are planted on the table as she pushes her seat back, rising to argue with him. Only she can’t because there’s a knock coming at the door. 

Rose meekly pushes her red head in and clears her throat, “The doorman says you have guests Mr. Teller.” Rose cuts her eyes from Rudi to Gaby, smiling slightly before leaving the room. The door shuts with a soft click and Gaby opens her mouth to speak but her uncle holds up a finger and ends the conversation with a single shake of his head. He stands and leaves Gaby in the dining room where she exhales all the tension away. Her muscles shake before she sinks herself back down into her chair, head falling down onto the dining table. 

Something hot pricks at the corners of her eyes and she sucks in a deep breath, determined to keep tears away as she exhales shakily. Her whole body shakes, lungs feeling heavy and she feels as if her heart is slowly cracking open in the worst way possible. Gaby squeezes her eyes shut tightly and before she can open her mouth to scream the door behind her clicks back open.

“Leave Rose!” Gaby snaps not bothering to get up or even open her eyes. A soft silence rings in the air around her, the tension around Gaby is still thick, she hears the door click closed once more and then exhales shakily. The world around her is a slow spin and she feels the weight of it pressing down onto her shoulders, threatening to break her back. She does not want to belong to anyone. 

“I come at a bad time?” The Russian accent hits her like an electrical pulse and Gaby is instantly standing. She stands so quickly that the dining chair behind her falls and she barely has a moment to wipe at her eyes before carefully curtsying to him. 

“Mr. Kuryakin.” She says his name almost breathlessly, unsure if she is really seeing him or having some sort of daytime nightmare where her thoughts are running rampant and her emotions have full control. She idly reaches a hand across her arm and pinches herself. The pain vibrates up her arm and she knows full and well that she is awake. 

“Are you well?” Illya strides towards her. He is so tall compared to her, making her head tilt back as he leans in. The very edge of his fingertips brush the hair on her arm and she pulls back before he can touch her. Gaby backs up until the table hits her back and she nods quickly.

“I am fine, thank you. I’m sorry. You’ve caught me off guard. What are you doing here?” She asks confused for a moment that the man she had just been arguing with her uncle about is standing before her, very much real. Something in his handsome face breaks and that flash of worry is gone as his lips twist into this small rare smile that she wonders if he ever wears it in public. 

“You invited me, remember? In your last letter.” He states it like it is the most obvious answer in the world, doing nothing more than throwing gasoline on her nerves, igniting the blaze of anger she feels creeping under her exterior. He takes a step back from her, giving her space as he crosses his arms in front of himself. He is dressed in a very well designed suit, crisp cut with sharp lines and he’s smiling as he continues speaking to her with that soft tone, “I wrote you several times and yet, you only write once. Am I boring?” 

Before Gaby can come up with a clever answer the door opens. A new man enters the room with a fine blue suit and her Uncle Rudi is right behind him, “Ah here they are,” Rudi beams as if they weren’t arguing just moments before, “Mr. Solo, may I introduce you to my darling Gabriella.” 

Gaby cuts her eyes to the dark haired man, raising her eyebrows before glancing to Illya who shrugged his shoulders, taking a step even further away as Solo practically sauntered to her, holding out his pale hand and taking hers. Without warning he kissed her hand with that warm mouth of his and then spoke with that harsh American tone, “Miss Teller.”

“An American?” She found herself saying, almost breaking out into a sharp fit of laughter. A Russian, friends with an American, bringing him to meet his future German bride. It was the material jokes were made of for certain, but Gaby contained her laughter as Solo nodded to her.

“Napoleon Solo, the Napoleon Solo, you may have seen my art?” He talks in a smooth tone, almost too charming and Gaby simply shakes her dark head to him.

“I can not say that I have. Nor want to.” She all but yanks her hand back from Solo’s grasp and Solo looks back at Illya who turns his head away, as if admiring the delicate wallpaper plastered to the wall. Napoleon pulls away from her and straightens his suit and tie before looking back at Uncle Rudi and shrugs his shoulders as if to say, he tried. 

“Mr. Solo, would you please accompany me to the library. I have this wonderful work of art just above my mantle and I would love an expert’s opinion on it.” Uncle Rudi is making up excuses now, so early in the morning to leave the two of them alone. Gaby almost sends her Uncle a pleading look, but it looks like Illya is doing the same as the blonde man twists on his heel as if to follow the others.

“I would be delighted Mr. Teller.” That charming tone is back as Napoleon slips out of the room behind her Uncle, leaving Illya alone with Gaby once more. The fire crackles not far from the table and Gaby leans back against her breakfast plate, tempted to hurl it at the wall, but that wouldn’t be lady-like. The silence between them sinks in, low and heavy. Gaby picks at the edge of her plate, her fingers playing with the expensive piece of porcelain before she finds the words she wants to say, lingering on them carefully.

“Why did you really come, Illya?” She says his name and Illya likes how it sounds in that raspy accent of hers. Her brown eyes are looking down, her head is tilted away from him and he thinks just for a moment, in this morning light, she is more beautiful than any woman in Russia. He doesn’t say anything, he’s too busy caught up in the glow around her. The train ride from Moscow to Berlin was a long one, his joints still feel stiff from sleeping in the tight compartment with Napoleon snoring across from him. Gaby repeats the question and this time she’s looking at him.

He feels heat rise up in his face, “I came to see Germany, how you see Germany.” 

“So you are staying?” Gaby breathes out the words carefully, almost silently. Illya catches every word and holds onto them, holds onto the soft way she’s speaking, he wants to hear her say his name just like this. He finds himself nodding to her words, unable to articulate just yet. Her brows raise and he finally chokes out the answer, feeling like a young boy again as his father talked to him of the world.

“Yes, yes. Solo and I, we are staying. Your Uncle has extended the grounds to us. Is this fair?” He questions her Uncle’s kindness with her own ruling, wondering if she would tell him to leave. If Gaby told him to leave, Illya would leave, but not before trying. He promised her before, she would not be property, but a partner. His hands close in fists at his sides as he stands tall, waiting for her own special verdict of him. After a moment or so the woman nods.

“It’s fine, I didn’t think you would come.” Gaby steps forward like she’s going to continue the thought but the door from the other side of the room opens and in comes a few of the servants. They all come to a halt though as their eyes land on Gaby and Illya standing just a few feet apart on the other side of the table.

“Forgive us Lady,” One of the servant’s bows her blond head but Gaby waves a hand softly.

“No need, you may go ahead and clean up. We are done here. Rose, if you would pull my riding clothes out. I would like to show Mr. Kuryakin more of the estate.” Gaby doesn’t look back at Illya, instead she walks past him like he isn’t even in the room and leaves. The door clicks shut behind her and it’s like someone has pulled all the air from his lungs as he stands there while the servants get started on cleaning up the dining room, prepping for lunch in just a few short hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know these character portrayals are very AU, but it was very hard for me to see them going into an arranged marriage with an AU setting other than the spy-world/for a cover/life threatening reasons. I appreciate all of you sticking around for this romantic fluff. I hope you all enjoy and thanks for taking the time to read and submit prompts to me. You're all pretty amazing.


	4. Chapter 4

The Teller estate was bigger than he remembered. Illya’s guest suite is very well decorated. The room is large and filled with golden colors that stretch across the walls with faint blue accents. He’s never seen so many colors in one room before. His own home is a shade of ivory with dark silver accents, black doors, his own is very clean cut. Gaby’s home though is something from a dreamscape. Everything is plush and warm. Fires crackle throughout most of the rooms, keeping the insides of the mansion warm. His private bath is almost as large as his bedroom and filled with more colors. The tub itself is creamy in color with a warm inviting look with colorful blue towels and pale pastels coating the walls. Nothing reminds him of home here. 

Napoleon’s room is adjacent to his own and just as large, with rich warm colors and he’s already making himself right at home with a red-headed girl who’s blushing so dark she matches her hair, but bats away Napoleon’s advances, quickly moving down the hallway, head ducked down as she disappears into a servant’s hall. Solo waves to him across the hall, stretching himself into the doorway, leaning as he smiles to his best friend, “This place is a step up.” Napoleon is right at home among the expensive surroundings, “Tell me again why we want her to come with us?” 

Illya sighed heavily, frowning at his best friend’s words as he shook his golden head. “This place is lovely, yes. My own estate is just as nice. I would like my future…” He paused, unable to say the words, they were lodged in his throat, holding tightly to his tongue. He wanted Gaby to see Russia, he wanted to convince her to come home with him, maybe even eventually agree to the arrangement. Then, maybe then his parents would come home. They would come back to see their only son get married, see the life he built with the money they left, the small fortune he had almost tripled with good business decisions in the time of war. Shaking his head again, he turned his blue gaze to Solo’s own and spoke crisply, “I would like the opportunity to share home with her. That is that.” 

“Right,” Solo drawled out the word slowly like he wanted to savor it before standing up a little taller in the doorway of his own private suite, “Did you know her Uncle has a Monet in the library?” He asked carefully, “Pretty strange considering the man works for Vinciguerra Shipping Company.” 

Illya shrugged, “The Teller’s come from old money, could be heirloom.” He didn’t throw much thought into the idea of a fancy painting living right at home with Gaby’s family. Her estate alone was worth thousands, maybe even more. It would be out of the ordinary if they had no art on the walls or expensive pieces of art to show off to guests. Illya calmly leaned in his own door frame, mirroring Solo’s stance with his arms crossed opposite the American, “Thought that name sounds familiar. The Shipping Company, they are big, no?” 

Napoleon smirked and shook his head, “Don’t you read the news Peril?” He practically scoffed out the words before moving across the hall, his feet dragging into the thick carpet, scuffing along as he closed the space between them, keeping his voice low, “It’s where that last mangled body showed up. You know the strange death’s popping up across the map?” 

“Coincidence.” Illya rolled his eyes now, “You are paranoid for an American.”

“I’m an American in Germany with a Russian as my sidekick, of course I’m paranoid.” He shrugs the words off but still sounds serious when he sighs out the next few words, “I just find things funny is all. Expensive place, expensive art, then dead people start populating the grounds. I mean, really Peril. It’s something right out of those novels you’re always digging yourself into.” 

Illya fought off the smirk as he waved his hand at Napoleon, “I am not your sidekick. If anything you are mine. Now, I have to go get ready to ride. I am going to see the estate. Are you coming Cowboy?” 

Napoleon shook his head, “No, I’m going to spend some more time with the Uncle. I think there just may be more to the Teller’s than old money.” Despite his words, Illya is shaking his head, not wanting to linger on any of the American’s absurd ideas when it came to his possible future partner. Napoleon sauntered away and Illya moved back inside his massive suite, getting his suitcases settled, attempting to find proper riding attire. He hadn’t expected to go riding, but he was nevertheless prepared.

\---------

Gaby’s trousers were itchy. She reached down and scratched over her knees through the thick wool lining as hard as she could just to dull the sensation. Her fingernails were clipped short, well manicured and not very good for getting rid of the itchy sensation that came with these riding pants. She pushed as much as the thought away as she could, moving into the stables not far from the main house. The walk was short, the warm autumn air settled in for the afternoon with the crisp breeze brushing along the back of her low ponytail. She walked to the stables, waving to the stable hand before moving to the last stall on the right. The tangy scent of horse hair and hay hit her nose, assaulting her senses as a dark bay colored horse moved over the edge of the wood stall. He huffed a heavy breath, nose hitting Gaby’s cheek as he leaned over the stall door. Gaby’s lips instantly turned upwards into a wide grin as she suppressed a laugh. The horse did it again, nuzzling closer to her hair and she squeaked softly backing up to open up the stall.

The stable hand was there, pulling the Holsteiner horse free from her hands. He saddled the horse up with precision, tightening the leather straps around the tall creature while Gaby’s fingers smoothed over the black mane, playing with the thick coarse hair while the horse stamped its feet almost impatiently. Gaby blew out a soft sigh, trying to calm the impatient creature, “Easy liebling.” 

Her fingers worked magic while the stable hand finished with the reins, passing them to Gaby with calloused hands. Gaby carefully took them and then pointed to her Uncle’s own black horse, “Saddle him up too, we have company coming.” She spoke the last part of the word to the horse in her hands who huffed and stamped his feet again. She moved around the side of the horse, hooking her foot in before swinging herself up and over into the saddle. All discomfort from her trousers was long forgotten as she sat up tall. She barely steered her horse from the stable before she caught sight of the blonde haired man. He moved across the lawn with a certain sort of grace, with long black riding boots up to his knees and his golden head held high. She wondered what thoughts lingered in his mind when he had caught her earlier in the morning near tears. She had lost all shreds of dignity in those few seconds that she barely had time to recover when realization had sank in. Gaby tried not to think about it, or about him and how handsome he looked in the mid-morning sun stretching across her land. He held a basket in his hand, no doubt Rose had made him lunch to bring along.

She couldn’t stop the smile that came over her when he came closer. His blue eyes were devastatingly bright, sparkling almost as he came close to her horse, his hand outstretched to pet the nose of her horse, “I apologize, I am late. Your handmaid would not let me leave without a basket.” He held the basket up as if Gaby would understand perfectly. Her smile only widened as she watched the man stroke the thick hair of her horse’s mane. 

“Liebling,” Gaby spoke up and Illya’s head jerked up towards her, cheeks staining red for a moment. He looked almost embarrassed as her word sank in and then she quickly shook her own head, “No, him. Him, his name is Liebling.” She corrected the words carefully watching the color slowly fade away from the Russian man’s face. Illya’s lips twisted up and he fought off an embarrassed laugh.

“Liebling is good name.” He laughs through his words as the stable hand joins Gaby, pulling out the ink colored horse alongside them. The dark colored horse is taller than Gaby’s own by two hand paces and his coat is dark and shiny, freckled in silver splotches. Handing the reins over to Illya, the stable hand straps the basket onto the saddlebag before bowing low, departing from them both. “And this one’s name?” 

Gaby licked over her bottom lip carefully, “Natcht,” She spoke with that harsh accent permeating her words. Illya nodded, stepping up and swinging a leg over. He quickly settled himself and looked to her. Their eyes met and Gaby tore her gaze away first, grabbing onto the reins and digging her heels in. The horse took off in a quick paced gate and Illya soon followed. They traced the outer edges of the estate, through the thick trails that hadn’t been cut through just yet. Everything was green tinged in reds and yellows as autumn sank in. The smell of damp earth permeated the air and Gaby rode further into the land, dragging him through a thickening trail that almost was impossible to navigate through before she pulled to a stop, dismounting her horse with a quick jump. Her boots sank into the leaves on the ground and she motioned for him to follow her.

Illya dropped down next, snagging the basket as well, hooking it into his arm as he followed after the dark haired woman. She climbed over a fallen log, then down a small slope leaving the horses behind. Gaby walked as the trees thinned out and then it was nothing but grass, thick green grass with a shock of blue running across the clearing. A small creek spilled into the sea of grass and sparkled with the afternoon light. Illya stood in the edge of the trees, just watching for a moment. Watching as she untied the ascot from around her throat, loosening her collar and then pulled off her riding hat, messing up her dark brown ponytail in the process. She walked like he wasn’t even there, or didn’t care to walk properly at all as she swung her arms at her sides and then found herself a spot of thick grass and plopped. Her legs stretched out towards the small creek and she crossed her boot covered ankles, leaning back on her elbows, getting grass stains on her white shirt. 

He couldn’t help the small ‘tsk’ that left his mouth at her ruining the elegant top. Without an invitation he lingered back for a moment, soaking in the view. When Gaby’s Uncle had first mentioned her, he thought nothing of the exaggerated beauty, all families exaggerated the beauty of their daughters and nieces. Rudi though, had been persistent and now Illya could see why. He could see the sharp jawline softening, the thick black lashes curling along her cheeks as she fluttered her eyes shut. She was a work of living, breathing art and nothing Solo could paint would ever come close. 

“Are you going to join me or are you going to stare?” Gaby called out into the fresh air and Illya stiffened for a moment before forcing himself to move. He carefully walked towards her, basket in hand as he set it down between them, taking the residency in the grass to her right. Gaby’s lips curved up into one of those soft smirks and she drummed her fingers against the grass, before she laid back. 

The sun was casting high over head now. It was well past noon, they had ridden for over two hours. Her legs were sore and she was tired, but couldn’t resist the call of her quiet getaway. She had only ever shared it with one person, her father and now Illya. Illya who was silent. Most of the ride he had been silent while she talked. She spoke of the estate, of the vast lands, the property she owned, so on and so forth. He had never once spoke up anything about himself. Nothing about his home in Russia. Nothing of his parents, nothing of himself. It was almost frustrating, but she let it pass, enjoying the silence between them instead. 

Illya reached into the basket, pulling out a plump orange. With skillful fingers he began peeling back the thick rind, letting it curl around his fingers as he went to work. Gaby watched him carefully out of the corner of her eye, “Do you like oranges?” She asked curiously. 

“I enjoy them, yes.” He answered slowly pulling back the peeling and setting it aside before pulling off the first wedge perfectly. However, he didn’t eat it. Instead he offered it to her. Gaby glanced up from the orange slice to his face, one fine eyebrow raising against her bangs, “Do you?” 

A moment of silence passed before she nodded, moving her hand up but he skipped over her fingers, instead pressing the soft flesh of the orange slice against her lips. Gaby’s brown eyes met his and she watched him for a moment before parting her lips and taking the slice. He was careful with her, holding the slice after the first bite and then the second, his thumb brushing along her bottom lip. The sticky citrus juice sliding down the edge of his thumb. Gaby fought the urge to clean it away with the tip of her tongue, instead watching as he pulled the next slice off for himself. 

They ate the rest of the orange like this. Gaby’s fingers stayed clean while Illya fed her a few more slices. The taste of the fruit lingered on her lips long after he washed his hands in the creek and held a hand out to her, lifting her off of the ground with ease. He lifted her like she practically weighed nothing, hooking his hand under her knees and sweeping her up. She folded carefully into his chest for a moment. The smell of warm leather assaulting her senses along with the faint scent of horses as he trekked back up the hillside with her. He moved smoothly with her, lifting her up and helping her back onto Liebling. Before he could pull away though she pulled onto his tie, holding him steady against the horse. Illya’s head tilted back and she leaned down. The smell of citrus lingered between them and her nose was mere inches from his own. She could lean down and seal the arrangement. Only when the thought struck her she pulled back. She was not a woman to be sold into marriage by a greedy Uncle. Her fingers slipped away from his tie and he straightened up, like waking from a dream and moved to mount his own horse. 

They rode back in silence and walked back to the estate in silence, parted ways with nothing more than a soft farewell and Gaby left Illya standing there in the hall, watching her walk away with grass stained elbows and trousers. She left him standing there with the sensation of her lips under her his touch and a sense of urgency that he couldn’t explain.

\---------

Gaby sank low in the tub. Lavender and rose surrounding her and she still couldn’t get out the scent of citrus under her nose or the feeling of his warm thumb brushing her lips. His palm had touched her cheek and his warmth had sank into her riding clothes when he lifted her and Gaby could still feel it all. It was like a warm brand, haunting her like a ghost as she sank lower into the sea of the bubbles. She kicked a leg out of the tub and watched the bubbles run low over her knees and then sank back down. She scrubbed away the scent of horse and leather, dunking her head down into the deep tub. She sank to the bottom, blowing out soft bubbles before Rose’s warm voice floated over her. The handmaiden was speaking to her when she broke the surface for air.

“My Lady you’re going to be late for dinner. Your Uncle has called dinner early, for the guests.” Rose stood with a large fluffy towel and Gaby made a soft groaning noise before forcing herself up and out of the tub. She dressed in a faint orange dress, one that reminded her of the warm afternoon, with a lace belt tied around her waist as Rose braided her hair tight, crowning her with a simple golden necklace. 

When she made it to dinner though, there was only Uncle Rudi and Illya, both who stood when she entered the room, Illya standing so quickly his knee hit the table, jostling the silverware about. There was no sign of his American comrade. She glanced from Illya to her Uncle before taking her place at the table, the chair was pushed in behind her by a servant and the other two sat as well. Gaby reached for her glass first, the rose colored wine already singing her name as she glanced back and forth, “Where is Mr. Solo?” Gaby asked over the rim of her glass. 

Illya had bathed too. His hair was a muted gold color, much like brass -- still wet and she could see the fresh lines along the edge of his face from a quick shave. She wanted to comment on his suit but refrained with her Uncle watching them closely. Illya looked perplexed though as if he hadn’t thought of Napoleon all afternoon.

“That is very good question. It is not like him to miss a meal.” Illya didn’t sound suspicious though. More or less he was thinking his comrade had found himself a very loose servant girl and was now spending his mealtime with her. It wouldn’t be far fetched to lose the American to a pretty girl. 

“I am sure Mr. Solo will join us eventually. If not I will have the chef make him a plate special and we can have it taken to his room.” Uncle Rudi sounded, a sly grin touching his old face as he clapped his hands together, “Now, please let the meal begin. I have worked up quite an appetite.” 

Plates were set down in front of them, full of colorful food and rich smells. Steam floated up from the plates as the first course was placed down in front of them. Illya glanced across his place to Gaby, she was already stabbing her fork into her plate, but she glanced up at him before taking a bite and their afternoon lunch flashed across her thoughts. A pale blush spread across her cheeks and she took a small bite of her food before looking away, “Tell me Uncle, what did you do today.” Gaby was eager for some noise, anything to distract her from her thoughts. 

Her Uncle chewed his food and swallowed down a bit of wine before answering her with a point of his fork, “Now my dear, you know I work awfully hard for the Vinciguerra’s keeping their shipping department at the top of their game and their finances.” Her Uncle said it so proudly, she was happy he worked, it kept him out of her affairs, out of her lack of lady-like tendencies. 

“Yes, yes. Did you show Mr. Solo the rest of your art collection?” Gaby asked and Illya paused with his fingers on his butter knife, he was partially through the dinner roll when she spoke of the art collection. His brows went up a bit, his last conversation with Napoleon still ringing in his ears. The German man nodded a few times, taking another large sip of the rose wine.

“I did my dear, I am certain he enjoyed it quite extensively.” 

Illya glanced between Rudi and Gaby, watching as her Uncle smiled wide and Gaby couldn’t help but smile back. Rudi was the only family she had left, he had done his research on her estate, she had come from old money. Her father had quite a bit of money long before the war started, but he wasn’t sure now just how much of it was left behind or how much of it Rudi actually brought in from a shipping company. Rudi said something and Gaby erupted into a soft giggle and everything shifted. He forgot all about shipping companies and pieces of expensive art. Instead he watched as she played with the gold chain around her throat and laughed. 

Dinner slipped into dessert and dessert slipped into whiskey and cigarettes when Uncle Rudi left them for the night. Illya sat in the library with her, well more like he stood while she sat on the plush couch watching as he stood enamored by her Uncle’s collection of books. Illya’s fingers brushed their spines and he walked with a military like step along the shelves. His eyes sliding over every piece in the collection and somehow it made her smile.

“Do you like to read, Illya?” She asked suddenly, breaking the after dinner silence. She pulled another breath from the cigarette and held the smoke in, feeling it burn along the back of her throat before exhaling heavily.

“I do,” He admitted quietly as he let his fingers brush a particularly thick brown book before skipping to a skinny green leather bound one. 

“Would you read to me?” She asked him carefully, folding her feet under her as she leaned back, holding the cigarette carefully in her slender fingers. 

“Tonight?” Illya questioned softly as he leaned down to a lower shelf, pulling on the edge of a red book. Gaby laughed at his words.

“When we are married, would you read to me?” She asked as if it was the most normal question in the world. Her belly was full of whiskey and a rich sugary dessert, lips still tingling with the faint taste of orange. Her brown eyes were glassy and her lips were curved into one of those sly little smirks. Illya turned to face her now, lips parted in a bit of shock as he blinked to her. His mouth opened and closed for a moment, making him resemble a fish out of water, desperate for a breath of air. She watched him now, holding the red book in his hands, the same book she had read just a few weeks before with the gruesome tales of the bodies found across Europe, she pegged it for a horror story, but right now she was living something else. 

She pressed her back further into the plush couch, fingers playing with the burning cancer stick as she watched him, “Every night.”


	5. Chapter 5

Gaby drank while Illya sat. The red book was still in his hand but he hadn’t read it yet, he was too busy watching the small woman standing in center stage of the dying fire, her fingers wrapped around a crystal tumbler and amber liquid spilling over her knuckles. She was warm with alcohol, words slurring and feet moving to an imaginary beat. Her Uncle had told him once before that Gaby was a dancer. She was once a very talented ballerina and it showed, he watched her move carefully with long legs and quick steps. Given the perfect stage, she would be the prima ballerina of any show. 

“I think it is very late.” Illya spoke, exhaustion clouding his words. He was tired, his muscles slightly ached from the ride today and his head was full of too many thoughts for him to sort out with Gaby swaying in that soft orange dress of hers. Her lace gloves were long since gone, tossed onto the desk and her hair was unpinned, curling at her shoulders. If her Uncle saw her now, they would both be in trouble, her for her manners and him for not stopping her. Gentlemen did not allow ladies to disrobe in libraries, but Illya tucked away the idea for his own library and Gaby’s own disrobing. 

The small woman turned to face him, a pout slipping over those lips and she looked like she wanted to argue. Only when she took a step, she faltered and almost fell. He stood of course, moving to her rescue like a white knight, desperate to keep her from falling. She instantly turned before he could steady her and she shoved both hands against his chest like a small child pushing away nightmares. Her shove was surprisingly strong, knocking him back a step. Worry struck him first as he watched her face flash something he easily recognized like the first time he had met her. Her brows were pulled down and lips followed suite, she was frightened. Words slurring ever so slightly from her after dessert drinks, “I am afraid.” She admitted quietly into the library.

“Afraid? Of what?” Illya shook his head, “You do not look like a woman who fears anything.”

 

Gaby hooked her chin upwards, the fear slowly melting away as she stepped up to him. He practically towered over the small woman, watching her lips turn up as she spoke that raspy tone of hers striking all his nerves like fresh matches, “I am afraid that you are going to take me away from here. That you are going to marry me and then throw me away with the war like all of your kind does.” 

Her words slowly sank in and he shook his head carefully, slowly moving his hands out. His fingers moved for her shoulders but he stopped himself, hands hovering just mere inches away. Illya didn’t touch her though, he left the space between them. He watched as she swayed a bit, unsteady with the alcohol, staring up at him up through her thick lashes, “No,” He answered her carefully, the word echoing in the room against the crackling of the dying fire. 

“No? No you do not want to marry me or no you will not use this marriage for some sort of gain?” Gaby stepped up now and he could smell lavender and rose lingering off of her skin, assaulting his senses. Blinding him to the rest of the room. 

“No,” He repeated the word quietly, watching her step up, head tilting up towards his own. They were too close now, he could see the edge of her nose just inches away from his own. She turned her head up further and he could feel her hands moving, bracing against the front of his suit coat. The red leather book in his hand slipped down, threatening to fall as she stood up on the tips of her toes, “No I would not do such things.” He whispered the words and she seemed to accept them. Her lips curved up and she unsteadily shifted forward but not before he dropped the book. 

The muffled sound of the book hitting the carpet separated them. Gaby pushed off of his chest, carefully edging back with a crooked sway, eyes casting down, “Oh, I’ve read that one.” She changed the subject. The air between them no longer sizzling like a livewire. She glanced from the book on the floor to Illya, “It reads more like a journal than a novel. No real plot, but very horror-like.” She watched him snatch the book up, tucking it under his arm.

“I-,” He stumbled around for a moment, trying to find the words but the clock above the mantle chimed and the last bit of the fire was burning down to nothing but hot embers. Gaby turned her head over, reading the fine clock face before she turned her gaze back to the tall man.

“It is late Illya,” She said his name in that soft tone again. The one that had him waiting for the next word to drop from her lips, “I think it is time to retire. Thank you for joining me today, maybe tomorrow we could invite your friend, Mr. Solo out to town.” 

At her words, Illya straightened up and folded the book in his hands. He nodded even though he had completely forgotten about Napoleon. He hadn’t shown up to dinner which was very unlike the American and he had all together skipped out on dessert. His thoughts lingered on Solo longer than he had intended because the next thing he realized was the door making a soft clicking noise as Gaby left him alone. Illya didn’t linger behind long. With the red book tucked under his arm he moved his way from the library back towards his suite. Napoleon’s door was closed and when he entered his own room, the bed was turned down and a fire already lit, keeping the room warm and relaxing. Setting the book down, he moved to get ready for bed, changing into his sleepwear before padding across the hall to Solo’s closed door. 

He knocked, the sound echoing down the hallway. That was the only sound, there was no movement from behind the door. No ruffle of sheets no giggling of a playful handmaiden pulled aside by the American womanizer. Illya frowned and knocked again. The silence continued and Illya moved his hand down to the doorknob, trying the door. It swung open revealing nothing but an empty room. No fire blazing, no warm embers or bedding turned down. The room was empty and chilly. Confusion crossed his features as he stepped further inside, his eyes sweeping the plush room for any sign of Napoleon, there was nothing, not even his luggage. If he was leaving he would have said something, Illya was certain of it. He backed out of the room and went back into his own, a bit of dread pooling in his stomach, worry etched across his handsome features. It was too late to go down now and possibly wake up Gaby’s Uncle, too late to investigate where Solo could have taken off. He could check first thing in the morning, but for now he grabbed the little red book again and moved his way to the oversized bed in the center of the room. The bed was warm, soft sheets and he actually fit across the large mattress without his feet dangling off of the side. He sank into the pillows and dragged the edges of the expensive sheets up and over his legs. With the light of the fire, he cracked open the book and sat up against the headboard.

\----------

Gaby twisted in her sheets. She was too hot despite the autumn air and her thoughts were too preoccupied to let her sleep. Her pajamas twisted around her legs and she finally slid out of the bed. Her oversized clothes were baggy against her slender frame, pants getting caught under her heels as she shuffled to the window closest to her bed. She shoved the drapes aside and pried the window open, letting a gust of chilly wind into the stifling room. She felt the tension winding around her belly ease up as she sank down to her knees, leaning her arms over the window sill. Gaby propped her chin up and sighed, her thoughts jumbled with faint traces of whiskey and thoughts of a certain Russian man crowding her space, feeding her orange slices. Her stomach fluttered with the sensation of butterflies and she tried to bite back a smile. Before she could let herself linger any longer, a figure outside caught her attention. Several figures all dressed heavily in black were walking away from the mansion. They were carrying large crates while another set of figures were carrying a heavy looking piece of furniture towards the servant doors where there was a faint glow of yellow light casting onto the grounds.

Gaby leaned a little further over, propping herself outside of the window, feeling her brown curls fall against her throat as the wind picked up again. Gaby squinted down into the dim light of the grounds, watching as a truck idled not far away and a servant now walked past the open doors, holding luggage. She could just make out the form of her Uncle’s butler carrying out the American’s trunk. 

Her stomach plummeted. Were they leaving so soon? Dread bubbled up within her stomach, making her nervous as she ducked back under the window, pacing across her room. Had she been too forward in the library? A thousand questions began forming across her thoughts, ringing around in her head. She paced, bare feet sinking into the plush carpet and then touching down on the cold wooden floor when she pried open her own door. The hallway was dark with very little light from the downstairs casting a faint glow along the walls. She crept out of her bedroom, leaving the door cracked for light as she padded down the hallway. Slowly she made her way up the winding staircase, feet turning cold against the wooden floors. Carefully she climbed to the guest suites, her pant legs sweeping across the floor as she made her way to the door on her left. Her fingers traced the outline of the door and then pushed all the courage she could into her closed fist knocking on the door. 

There was the faint sound of fabric rustling and then a shadow crossed under the door before it opened. Gaby took a careful step back as the light from the fire illuminated the hallway, casting her in an orange sort of light and kept Illya’s tall form in a dark silhouette. He looked intimidating in the dark, almost something worth fearing with his sharp jawline and narrowing eyes. 

“Gaby?” His voice was soft, sleepy almost and laced with confusion. He ran a tired hand over his face, scratching at his jawline as he pushed the door open fuller, eyeing her in her oversized sleepwear. He was probably wondering why she was at his door so late in the night, this was no place for a lady to be in the middle of the night. No place for an unmarried woman at least. 

“Illya, are you leaving?” She asked him not bothering with a greeting at all as she moved a hand up and braced her palm on the door as if she could block him from leaving his own room.

“Leaving?” He tilted his head the confusion was still loud and clear, uncertain of the meaning of her words. She watched his mouth tightened into a thin line and then he wrenched the door open and grabbed onto her wrist before her hand could fall from the door. He tugged her inside of his room and closed the door. Gaby’s back met the door as he leaned in, hands on her wrists still, thumbs apologizing for his touch as they ran across her skin. She gasped, head leaning back into the door and Illya’s hair brushed her forehead as he leaned in, warm breath ghosting over the shell of her ear.

“I am not leaving, I have something to show you,” His whisper was almost silent as he pulled away from her, letting go and she instantly missed the warmth of his hands against her skin. She watched him as he moved for the nightstand to his bed, picking up the red leather book. “This is not any book,” He waved it in his hand towards her.

“What?” Gaby’s head tilted to the side, unsure of where exactly he was going with the little red book, “Of course it is. Illya it is part of my Uncle’s strange collection.” 

“Nyet. No,” Illya’s tone was harsh and he opened the book, “It reads like diary because it is one. The print is a special ink, but this is not fiction. This is real.” 

Gaby shook her head slowly, “No, you have had too much to drink tonight. That is a book and you are just making up excuses because I saw them taking your luggage away.” It was Illya’s turn to be confused now. He had the book open, fingers splayed over the pages but he dropped it on the edge of the bed.

“No, my luggage is here.”

“Then why is your friend leaving? Does he not like it here? Is he so American that he can not stomach German culture?” She felt angry that he was lying to her, he had to be lying to her. She watched with her own two eyes as the servants loaded the luggage into the back of a street car. 

“Napoleon is leaving? No,” Illya shook his head and went back to the book. He turned it over, opening the last few pages where ink was scribbled across the last few lines. Description of a nosy artist about to become a true work of art. Illya glanced back up at Gaby and shook his head, “Where is basement?”

“I beg your pardon?” Gaby all but shouted the question, “I’m not answering you until you answer me.”

“Gaby,” He said her name like a curse. That Russian accent stabbing at the letters, warning her that he wasn’t playing games, he wasn’t keeping to his manners. She clenched her jaw, fingers folding into perfectly uniformed fists. 

“No,” She insisted but Illya moved towards her with a few quick strides, his long legs closing the distance between them as both of his hands slammed on either side of the door close to her head. She bit back a gasp, watching as his fingers shook then tapped against the door with a rhythmic sort of pace. 

“Gaby, please.” He pleaded with her, voice tight and his jaw ticking slightly. She had never seen anyone look so angry before in her life. Then as quickly as his anger had come on, it stopped. The tapping ceased and he let his golden head fall into the crook of her neck as he bit back what sounded like a strangled sob, “Tell me where the basement is. I think your Uncle, the bodies…”

“The book,” Gaby finished the words feeling heat spread across her cheeks. She felt foolish as he nodded against her shoulder and her hand came up, touching the side of his rough cheek. At this proximity she could see the faint shine of a scar close to his eye, a chink in his armor, making him look less like a work of Russian art and more like a human, “Illya, do you think?”

“Is just a thought, pieces. Solo is not in his room, his baggage gone. The book is detailed.” 

Gaby’s stomach sank and she felt the pull of a hysterical sob, but Illya’s hand smoothed around the edge of her waist where no man had ever touched her before and she stopped. Her stomach jumped and she felt the warmth of his palm settling onto her, warming her through the sleepwear. She turned her head over, her nose brushing his temple, “Tell me this isn’t real.”

“I can not do that.” He murmured against her and before she could ask him anything else, he was pulling away. Gaby forced herself to move, forced herself to pull away from door and open it again. She didn’t bother with shoes or with telling him to follow her. The book was detailed and some of it still lingered behind in her thoughts, even more so when her Uncle had kept the newspaper at the breakfast table. The Vinciguerra Company was tied to this all somehow and possibly to even more of her estate, she wasn’t sure how far the strings ran or how deep the ties of trust went, but she was ready to start looking for the answers.


	6. Chapter 6

The light overhead came in a blinding blur, his vision focused in and out on his surroundings. A pale yellow light was strung overhead, illuminating part of the dark room. The only thing he could see was the light, everything else was too dark. Voices murmured nearby but his ears couldn’t quite turn the sound into words. He could only hear the harsh German accent of the man he had been following. Slowly Napoleon began coming to his senses. His hands were bound, unable to move under the uncomfortably tight leather straps that held him in the chair and his head could barely turn. Something was looped around his dark hair, pushing it back, pressing hard on his forehead. He was trapped and his head was throbbing. Blinking a few times, the American shifted in the chair again, he kicked a leg out, only for it to go nowhere. He was bound there too with his ankles clanking together, he grit his teeth out of pure frustration trying to pull upwards with his hands. His fingers folded into fists and he pulled with all the strength he could muster up. 

Nothing happened. Everything stayed in place including himself. A frustrated sigh left his lips, all he could remember was lunch with Rudi Teller, the man with the thick glasses had been going on and on about his private art collection, of how expensive it was. It wasn’t until Solo started asking questions that flags began to go off. The Teller estate was more or less running out of funds. The expensive lavish lifestyle held by Rudi Teller was quickly bankrupting them, the art was more or less stolen. 

The Monet hanging in the library, Solo had recognized it almost instantly. It had gone missing in Prague after being shipped from one museum to another. Shipped no doubt by Vinciguerra Shipping Company. The pieces were slowly beginning to come together. In exchange for expensive stolen art, Rudi offered up his services to the Vinciguerra family. Services that included some very gruesome crimes no doubt, there were newspaper cut outs all over the Teller mansion. He had first noticed them in the study and then once more with the newspaper in the dining room and again when he had let himself into Rudi’s room just hours ago, or at least it felt like hours ago. His head throbbed some more.

Teller must have hit him. 

Somewhere between lunch and the questions, Teller must have hit him hard in the back of the head but with what, Solo would probably never know. All he knew now was the faint throbbing and the sour taste in the back of his mouth. Wherever he was being held was dark, but he could see a window off to the left in the corner of his vision. It was small and dark. He was more or less in a wine cellar or basement, it must have been sometime in the night judging by the lack of noise overhead. He shifted in the chair again, barely an inch or so when footsteps sounded close by. The American froze, this was not part of the plan when he had agreed to accompany his best friend to Germany. Dying was not in the plan at all, sleeping with several young woman had been, maybe finding a muse or two had been as well but not dying. Not dying at the hands of a man who played with his food rather than eating it. 

“Oh you are awake Mr. Solo, good.” Rudi Teller’s voice was overly cheerful, loud and too close for comfort. Solo’s brows furrowed for a moment as he tried to lean his head away from the voice, but he was trapped, tightly wound in the chair. “I was beginning to think you would sleep all night long and then where would we be?”

“Well, we would still be in Berlin and I would be in my room.” Napoleon drawled out carefully, “What exactly do you plan on doing with me? My comrade is bound to notice my absence.” It was true, he hoped Illya was looking for him. That his friend wouldn’t just forget him while trying to win the affection of the man’s niece. 

“Yes, well, I can only hope my Gaby is keeping him busy,” Rudi clapped his hands together as he spoke but he didn’t sound too confident in those words, making the American wonder for a moment.

“She doesn’t know, does she?” 

Rudi flicked his gaze over the thin wire rim of his thick glasses. His forehead wrinkled as he observed the other man for a moment, sniffling slightly, “There is no need to draw her into this.” Rudi was stern with his voice, almost commanding Solo to leave Gaby out of the conversation, “This is between you and I, Mr. Solo.” 

“Not likely.” Solo drawled out watching as Rudi stood and moved for a small table with wheels attached to the bottom of it. He wheeled the small table close to the chair and silver instruments sparkled off the top of it. They looked like medical tools, all new and clean, and ready to be used. He swallowed hard and turned his blue eyes away from the table, “It’s just you actively sought out a wealthy estate to marry her off to. I am guessing you’re running out of money. That all this dirty business with the Vinciguerra family isn’t paying off.” He was using all the charm he could muster up as Rudi’s fingers smoothed along the medical tools, finding a syringe with a needle that looked long enough to piece through his bicep. Solo swallowed hard and kept going while Rudi stuck the needle down into a clear vial, extracting some sort of liquid from it, “Is that why you went to Russia? Seeking out the Kuryakin fortune?” 

Rudi glanced from the vial up to Solo and tilted his head, “The Kuryakin fortune is well known, I knew they had a son who was not married. For reasons I didn’t care for. I found his parents. It wasn’t hard when they’re just as criminally bound as the Vincinguerra’s. Tell me Mr. Solo, do you always talk so much?” 

“Usually there’s more wining and dining involved,” Solo sniffed just before Rudi stuck the needle tip into the bend of his elbow, right into the vein. Sweat beaded up on his pale forehead and slipped down his cheek as he grit his teeth again, trying to hold back any grunts of pain as the man depressed the plunger. A strange euphoric sensation started in his arm and then his heart started to speed up. 

“Easy Mr. Solo, it’s just a small dose of adrenaline to keep you alive for now.” 

Napoleon’s breathing picked up, “You picked the wrong estate to mess with, tell me. Did you know the Kuryakin’s are broke? They fled to avoid the taxes of war.” 

“Yes, but their son,” Rudi grinned now, showing off yellowing teeth, all crooked and menacing. “Their prodigal son took what was left of their fortune and nearly tripled it by the time he was in his early twenties. Something almost unheard of in times of war. I merely put the idea of him marrying my Gabriella in their head. They wrote their son and then the strangest things began happening. Mr. Kuryakin wrote me and I invited him months ago to dinner. All I had to do was propose my Gaby to him. He seemed like a man desperate for their approval. It must be hard growing up under that umbrella of shame in such a proud country.” 

Napoleon’s fingers closed into fists again. Anger flooded his system. He was angry at this man, angry at him for taking advantage of Illya for seeking out his friend, for using his own niece for personal gain. It was something disgusting. He shifted in the chair as Rudi started moving wires around him, tucking metal endings under the leather straps on his arms, “What about Gaby?” Napoleon asked, turning his head up to Rudi who was working diligently on his torturous setup. 

“What about her?” He sounded exhausted at the mention of his niece’s name. Like she was nothing more than an expendable pawn in his own personal chess game. 

“The shame she’ll have to hold when you get caught.” Napoleon spoke louder now, “I mean you used her to get your hands on a fortune, you don’t even know if Illya would marry her.” 

Rudi nodded as he moved away picking up a small switchboard like object. It was metal and had wires coming out of the back of it and little silver and black knobs on the other side where his fingers were dancing dangerously close to, “Oh the thought crossed my mind. Gaby is far from lady-like. I knew if I sent her to social gatherings she would never find a suitable husband with enough wealth to sustain the estate. I had to set up the arrangement. Ah, here it is.” He found the button he wanted and the little light over Solo’s head dimmed for a moment and then a race of electricity shot across his skin. The instant contact had him squelching out a sharp sound. His body twitched, pulsing with the race of electricity, heart slamming into his ribcage so hard he was certain it would break free. 

“Now Mr. Solo,” Napoleon could hear Rudi through the roaring sound of blood rushing through his head, he shook under the electrical surge, fighting to keep his eyes open, “Now you get to experience real art!” The sudden jolt of electricity stopped and Napoleon gasped. His lungs felt like they were on fire and his head was clouded, vision going blurry. His skin felt like was on fire with a dull burning sensation running over the tips of his nerves. 

“Real art?” Solo gasped out the words as Rudi smacked the little board in his hand, shaking it a bit as he played with the connecting wires that were splitting out of the back of it. 

“Bad connection,” Rudi shrugged and twisted one wire around another before pushing the button all over again. It was worse the second time around. Blood slipped from his nose, down his pretty mouth and he could taste the copper on the tip of his tongue. The edges of his vision were going black, like someone had dropped fresh ink in his blue eyes. 

Then it stopped again and the black edged away. Something golden caught in the field of his vision as Rudi smacked the contact board again. Napoleon’s mouth twisted up, faint little smirk as he welcomed the reprieve, “You’re a very bad man.” Solo whispered out the words, finding his voice again as Rudi shrugged to him, uncaring of his words. “God get me out of here Peril.” 

“Working on it Cowboy.” Rudi’s face turned into confusion and he tilted his head to the side. 

The Russian’s voice echoed in the basement and Rudi stood, dropping the board. The contact picked up again and Napoleon shouted this time as the electricity jolted across his nerves. Illya’s fist hit Rudi first and then everything started blurring out. He could see the light overhead swinging. The sound of a young woman screaming. Then the sight of the woman in front of him. Her sleep clothes were too big for her, he could almost see down her blouse as she pulled the cable off of his skin. The electricity ceased and he shouted in relief, coughing a bit at the dryness of his throat. Gaby’s hands found his face and she ran her thumb under his nose, wiping away the blood.

“Napoleon,” Her eyes were wide and scared. She looked afraid as she pushed the leather strap away from his head, and he knew why when he saw Illya throwing the nearby table into the wall, splintering it as Rudi scrambled back, throwing medical instruments at the blond giant headed his way. “Napoleon I have to get you out of here and we have to get to the police,” She was trying to keep her calm, fingers shaking and voice wavering. The American man felt a pang of guilt. She had no idea all of this had been happening in her own home, with her own money, her own estate ran dry by a madman with a murderous taste in his mouth. Gaby undid the rest of his bindings and he struggled to stand for a moment. He collapsed for a moment against the small woman. Gaby practically buckled under his weight but she helped push him up, leaning him up against the closest wall as she moved towards her Uncle. Her pajama pants caught on her heels. She looked exceptionally small as she ran across the room just as Rudi bent over the edge of a small table. Then there was the sound of the gun. The sound echoed in the small basement, fired off by Rudi, pointed at Illya, but he had missed. The revolver in his hand shaking and Gaby shrieked out her Uncle’s name. 

Rudi turned to look at her and when he turned he pointed the gun at her and fired. Illya’s vision went red. His hands moved on their own, he picked up the closest thing he could and struck Teller with it hard in the throat. The silver scalpel sliced through the skin and punctured the artery. The spray of warm blood hit his face but Illya didn’t stop. He kept driving it forward until Rudi’s body hit the wall and the sank down to the ground with a horrific gurgle of air escaping the wound. Rudi’s body fell against his bare feet and Illya took a step back, blood sticking to his hands, covering bits of his face, he turns to the woman leaning back against Napoleon. Gaby’s oversized blue shirt was tinged in red. She had a look of shock on her face as blood slipped from her right shoulder and soaked into the fabric. 

“I-I think,” Gaby breathed out the words with a sort of soft disbelief. She sounded lost almost, voice soft and laced with confusion. “I think I’ve been shot.” 

“Gaby,” She moved her hand over her shoulder and pressed it tightly there, standing under the light where Napoleon had been held just a few moments before. She pulled her palm away, staring at the bright sparkle of blood on her palm. Pain burned through her chest, adrenaline seeping away. Her eyes flicked towards her Uncle behind Illya, dead. He was dead and bloody and Illya was covered in his blood. Her stomach churned and she felt light headed. Illya took another step towards her and then another. When her knees knocked together he closed the rest of the space and caught her into his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” She said the words into his ruined shirt, “I’m sorry you came and for him. I don’t--” Gaby didn’t know how to apologize for her Uncle. She didn’t know how to breathe right now, everything was hot and on fire. Her lungs burned and she felt the twinge of pain when Illya pulled the edge of her top down to look at her shoulder. 

“Is going to be okay,” He breathed softly, his nose brushing the crown of her head. They had heard it all in the stairwell. They heard Solo putting the pieces together. They heard Rudi confirming it all and Gaby had the first tear sliding down the curve of her cheek when she realized their arrangement was done for wealth and spite. Now, Illya was pulling her up, motioning to Solo, tilting his head back, “Are you okay Cowboy?” 

The dark haired man nodded to him, motioning to the small woman, “She’s innocent you know.” He managed to straighten himself up, leaning on the wall behind him for support. His whole body still on fire, on the very edge of something dangerous. He needed a good drink and a very pretty nurse to set him straight. Illya nodded to him though, his hand covering the woman’s shoulder as he looked up at him. 

“I know, I heard.” It was all he could say as the situation sank in. 

The air around them grew cold and footsteps on the upper levels let them know there were servants up and about. Illya motioned to Napoleon and with ease the three of them managed to make it up the steps to the telephone in the main hall, authorities were called along with the driver.

\-----------

Illya rode with Gaby to the hospital and Napoleon stayed behind working with the police, combing through the story with his pristine details. The coroner came and collected Rudi Teller, servants got to work on the blood.

The Monet was taken out of the library, along with several other priceless pieces. 

The estate dismissed most of the help while Gaby laid in recovery. 

Authorities locked up the property, her fortune temporarily gone with the click of a lock. 

Despite the tension in the air, Illya never left her side. He waited outside the doors until the doctors had taken care of her and then waited by the bed until she came to. Her fingers sought out his and he let her take hold of his hand. She held onto him until she fell back asleep, the distant sounds of the hospital filtered out by her private room. He took care of her hospital bill and when she slept, he had gone out and bought her a new dress to wear when they discharged her. He hung it on the back of the door, white and green a colorful strike in the pale room. 

When she woke, he stayed with her then. Listening to the changing in her breathing as she managed to say his name along as he tore his eyes away from his reading material. He folded up the novel and tucked it inside of his jacket, an orange on her small table. When she had tried to reach for the fruit, he had stopped her. Before she could protest, he started peeling the fruit and tearing off perfect wedges for her. Illya fed her just like he had in the grass. 

All her protests faded away and she let him. 

Solo had taken care of the auctioning of her Uncle’s things, making her enough money to live off of comfortably for a little while.

\-----------

“What do you plan on doing now?” Solo asked, sitting across from him in the hospital cafe. Steaming cups of coffee were placed in front of them and Illya folded his arms across the table. A week had passed and Gaby would be getting released in a few short hours. His best friend caught his gaze and the two of them sat there in the silence before Illya exhaled heavily.

“We go home? You paint?” Illya shrugged his shoulders, something in his tone told Solo he didn’t want to leave just yet. Not empty handed. They had come to Germany to retrieve him a fiance and now it seemed bittersweet to leave the woman behind. 

Napoleon reached for his cup, “Maybe,” He murmured over the rim of his mug, taking a small sip of the steaming liquid. Swallowing softly the man stretched out his legs and held onto his mug with both hands. The heat warming his fingertips as he looked up at Illya, “Suppose we don’t just yet?”

Illya turned his head to the side, tilting it just a moment as he spied Solo and raised a fine eyebrow, “No?” He moved for his own coffee cup this time, drinking the dark liquid down before licking over his bottom lip, “What do we do then?” 

“Well, call me a romantic, but this is where you go sweep the young lady off of her feet. Marry her.” Napoleon grinned setting his mug down, adjusting his expensive cufflinks on his bright blue suit as he did so. His smile reached his eyes as he turned his head towards the exit of the cafe. 

Illya scoffed at his words, “Marry the woman after I killed her Uncle. Not very romantic. Not even close to Russian way.” 

“Between the two of you, I don’t think there is any sort of right way. You came here to convince her. Now, are you the one who needs convincing? I don’t think she wants your money Peril. If anything at least offer her a place to stay. Besides, I’m sort of fond of the little --” Solo’s words were cut off as a woman walked by, tall with dark hair and dark eyes. She was dressed in all white with comfortable looking shoes, a nurse. He watched her walk by and then watched her walk away from their table, heading for the counter to order coffee. Illya crossed his arms along his chest and an amused smile touched his lips as he watched the wheels beginning to turn over in Napoleon’s head as he slid back in his seat, “If you’ll excuse me.” He tipped his head down and excused himself from the table while Illya shook his head, leaning back over his coffee for just a moment longer. His dark reflection stared back at him in the little cup as he mulled over Napoleon’s words. 

Solo’s voice drifted to him from by the counter. The young nurse was laughing now, her hand on his arm and he was buying her coffee, leading her out to a bench outside to sit with him, leaving Illya to his own devices. He stayed with the coffee a bit longer before finishing off his mug and sliding out of the cafe with ease. He left Solo behind taking his way through the hospital’s maze like halls. He made his way back to Gaby’s private room, not bothering to knock. He figured she was asleep, but when he opened the door he was met with a different sight. Gaby stood at the end of her bed, wearing the dress he had bought for her. Her fingers were playing with the petals on the bouquet of flowers Solo had put on the small table by her bed and she plucked off the rose petal before glancing up at him. 

“Illya,” She smiled with his name, stepping away from the flowers and reaching up to tuck her hair in behind her ears. She walked carefully around the edge of the bed, no longer wincing in pain. Her color had mostly returned and she was smiling now. Gaby moved towards him and he fought the urge to run to her. Instead he made himself take a slow step forward, moving to meet her halfway in the room. 

“You’re up,” He motioned to her, eyes skimming along her dress. His dress. 

“I am,” She practically beamed at the words. She was tired of being confined to the bed, tired of being cooped up in the small hospital room. Gaby played with her hands for a moment, fingers lacing together and then she glanced down at her feet, “I get to go home today. Not that I have a home.” Her voice faded off for a moment. Her home was locked away, her Uncle had devastated her estate, run her fortune down, but Illya and Napoleon had come to the rescue. She had enough funds to keep herself afloat for a little while longer. 

Still her words struck a chord in him and he stepped forward, “I have a proposition for you.” He started, voice low and he watched as her head tilted up. Gaby’s eyes caught onto his and he cleared his throat, moving a hand up and brushing her dark bangs away from her forehead. “We continue our plan.” 

Her brow crinkled a bit. He smoothed his thumb over the wrinkles, taking them away as he continued on with his train of thought. Her hands fell against his jacket, fingers grasping onto the expensive material. Illya continued on, “You come home with me. I get the chance to let you see Russia, how I see Russia. You dance with me even.” His voice was softer now, watching her process his words with wide eyes, “And we continue the engagement.” 

Gaby’s mouth twisted up into a smile, “Our long engagement?” 

After a moment he nodded, “Yes, long engagement best.” 

Gaby’s hands in his suit jacket tightened and he let his fingers slip into her hair. It was softer than he expected, his fingers curled around the soft tendrils and she leaned her head back for him. Illya’s fingers stroked lower, tracing the line of her throat pausing there as he watched her swallowed hard. He could hear her voice ringing in his ears when he had gone to kill her Uncle. Gaby’s voice had broke through that red haze. She had quelled that temper in him and he had been scared seeing the red seep into her pajama shirt. Her fingers tightened in his jacket and she found herself pulling him in closer. Illya leaned in, lips skimming across her forehead first but Gaby wasn’t having it. Her fingers slipped up from his shirt and hooked around his neck and in a moment she was pulling him down. His lips skimmed hers and the taste of oranges lingered between them and she pushed herself up on the tips of her toes, kissing him. 

Gaby kept kissing him. She kissed him on the train to Moscow and again when he put a small pearl ring on her finger. He kissed her in the first snowfall, pulling a warm fur hat on her head. He kept the kitchen stocked with oranges and she turned the ivory colored walls into works of art, bringing new life and color into the old estate. Solo stayed with them and then traveled, but somehow always found his way back to them when the seasons changed. 

Their long engagement turned short and she married him in the spring.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this and feel free to stop by imagine gallya or my own blog and submit prompts @elektranatchiohs, I promise to eventually get to them all. Eventually. Some Russian history taken from the wonderful @msredfield who has educated me quite a bit as well as helped with future translations. Thank you for all your help, you are a saint.


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